


Replica

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Finwë No, Incest, M/M, No Sex, Son Issues, Substitution, Underage Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finwë's obsession is now twofold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Replica

**Author's Note:**

> Fills the forbidden fruit prompt in my Trope Bingo card.
> 
> It works as a prequel to [Little Guilt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2816819), too.

“Tata?”

The word washes over Finwë like the water of a gelid, rushing waterfall. He starts and looks up, his mind roused from the daydream it had sunk into.

Curufinwë stands before his seat, dressed in an elegant tunic, with his hair pulled back from his face so that every line and curve of its shape stands out – the traits of his most beloved, copied onto a younger mould. He holds out a seemingly simple necklace towards him, expectant. Finwë lost track of Curufinwë's words halfway through his explanation of the technique he had employed in making that particular piece of jewelry – a special present for him he had said, smiling a dazzling smile. 

_Curufinwë isn't his father_. It's normal for a grandson to call his grandfather by a venerated term of endearment, it's no excuse for him to imagine it is actually Fëanáro speaking. 

Curufinwë isn't his father, but as he grows he becomes more and more alike to him, and Finwë has spent so many years castigating himself for his unfatherly love for his son, struggling to stifle his desire, teetering on the brink of temptation. He isn't sure he can do it again. 

Curufinwë _could be_ his father, and Finwë isn't sure he will be able to resist this time.

Curufinwë looks down at his own hands, his forehead creasing a little. 

“You don't like it?” he asks, with genuine concern. “Is it too simple?”

“No, of course not...I do like it, of course,” Finwë hastens to reassure him. “Come here.”

He puts his hands out. Curufinwë draws closer to the seat and slides the necklace onto them. Their fingers brush together in the process, and Finwë's jaw tightens to stifle a gasp, and to prevent himself from shivering. He pretends to inspect the necklace, though he barely takes notice of the limpid diamonds set into it and the very minute metalwork framing its slender curve.

“It is a very fine piece of work,” he forces himself to say, “the same I would expect from your father.”

A flicker of smug satisfaction passes on Curufinwë's face and he bows in gratitude for the compliment. “You think so?”

Finwë nods his head vigorously. “Will you fasten it for me?”

“With pleasure.”

Finwë hands the necklace back to his grandson and twists on the armchair to proffer his neck to him.

Curufinwë is quick with his hands. The metal – gold, so dark in shade it could pass for copper – is firm against Finwë's skin, but the necklace is surprisingly light, and he can barely feel its shape on his shoulders. Curufinwë fastens the clasp on his nape, letting his fingers brush against it. 

Finwë does shiver then, but he doesn't worry too much about it: he can put it down to the necklace being cool. He's glad he's wearing formal, heavy robes, because his nipples harden and goosebumps travel down on his arms. Curufinwë's touch is too much, and yet too little.

“Come, sit on my legs.”

Curufinwë takes on a coy air, but does as Finwë asks. 

“I'm way too big for this,” he remarks, as he sits down on his grandfather's legs, sideways, and leans his weight onto his chest.

“Let me coddle you while I still can.”

Curufinwë smiles, and once again it is a bright happy smile, befitting of his age. Finwë circles his still narrow waist with his arms and pulls him even closer. He has done the same with Fëanáro when he was young, hovering always always so close to just giving in and do that which the Valar had proclaimed the greatest sin. But it wasn't fear of reprobation or of punishment that held him back. What held him back was the very same love that made his hands itch, and Míriel's memory alongside it.

“What do you plan on doing when you will reach your majority? Set up your own workshop?”

Curufinwë doesn't stop to think for even a moment, and his voice is firm as he says, “I want to make Tata happy.” He pauses (Finwë could almost believe he's the one Curufinwë wants to make happy), then adds, “nothing matters more to me.”

Finwë swallows thickly. He shifts his feet, and Curufinwë's weight on his legs. He has to clear his throat before he can speak again. “That is admirable of you. Such devotion...” 

He trails off, unsure of what to say, or afraid of what he would like to say.

Curufinwë seems not to notice, and instead he reaches for his neck, and readjusts the necklace. He lets his hand rest just at the base of Finwë's neck. He looks right into Finwë's eyes, and Finwë has the impression that Curufinwë can see right through him, that he _knows_. He tenses. 

Curufinwë sticks his tongue between his own lips to wet them.

Finwë stares, wide-eyed. Curufinwë's face inches closer, his mouth brushes his cheek and then it's on his lips. The world falls apart.

**Author's Note:**

> Curufin is the equivalent of a sixteen year old here.


End file.
